A Love by Design, page 3
Even Arthur’s face cracked when Grantham told the story of how the three of them managed to burn a hole through the massive dining table that had previously withstood the depredations of nearly two hundred years of Grange offspring until Violet came along.
“My theory was sound,” Violet insisted. “The problem was in the execution.”
“The problem,” Grantham said, “was the two of you scientific geniuses relying on a henchman who thought a cup full of brandy was a piddling amount of fuel if we were to make the Christmas pudding a true spectacle.”
“It wasn’t brandy,” Violet explained to Arthur. “I’d been researching accelerants and conceived a formula to create the highest flames with the smallest measure of liquid.”
Arthur let his piercing gaze rest on Margaret. “Did you perhaps inject a note of sanity into their madness, Madame Gault?” he asked.
“I am afraid not, Mr. Kneland,” she confessed. “After estimating the height and intensity of the flames according to Violet’s formula, I designed the optimal platform atop which we set the pudding. I should have used less flammable construction materials, for once the pudding was lit—”
“And my father’s eyebrows were singed—” said Violet.
“And your sister Poppy wet herself from screaming.” Grantham chuckled.
“And my other sister Lily bruised her forehead from ducking under the table—”
“And your other sister Iris wet herself from laughing—” Margaret reminded her.
“The flames from the pudding consumed the platform, most of the tablecloth, and a good deal of the table beneath it,” Violet finished.
“It was a terrific fire for all that it demolished the pudding,” Margaret said wistfully. Violet and Grantham sighed in agreement and Arthur frowned.
“No disrespect, Madame Gault,” he said, a note of fear in his voice. “But for how long, exactly, will you be staying at Athena’s Retreat?”
Margaret laughed in appreciation as Violet scolded him.
“Margaret is the most sensible woman I know. She’d never let Grantham and I talk her into anything so dangerous now.”
For this first time since she’d arrived, Margaret let her gaze meet Grantham’s.
“You have nothing to fear, Mr. Kneland,” she said. “I learned the hard way to never again trust Lord Grantham’s proposals.”
2
TWO DAYS LATER, while her maid paid the driver, Margaret stepped down from a hired hack, and breathed in the stench of the city—a combination of coal smoke, the muck of the nearby Thames, and the accumulation of horse droppings and hay littering the street.
Compared to the interior of the hackney cab they’d exited, it smelled like a garden.
“I think someone might have died in there, madame,” the maid, Maisey, confided after the hack had departed.
Being a widow, Margaret had fewer restrictions on her ability to travel alone than an unmarried woman. However, she took a maid with her whenever she visited a prospective client. Her late husband, Marcel, had drummed into her from the beginning of their partnership that an independent woman must never appear so.
“Imagine if a man walked about with his purse open and gold coins clanking for all the world to see,” he would say. “Everyone would blame the man if he were robbed, no matter the coins belonged to him. Men are the same way with power, my dear. If you show it off, they will take it away and blame you for their actions.”
She’d met Marcel Gault two days after arriving in Paris thirteen years ago. Violet’s father, Viscount Grange, had sent ahead a letter of introduction to Henri Gault, founder of the city’s most prestigious engineering firm. Henri hesitated to take on a woman engineer as an apprentice, no matter how much he admired Lord Grange. His son, Marcel, had no similar qualms.
“Engineering is the perfect science for women,” Marcel had told his father, winking at her. “They have the common sense that is characteristic of their sex but none of the ego which causes men to overestimate and underfund.”
Tall and thin with a Gallic eye for fashion and a head for accounting, Marcel Gault was a steady presence with a dry wit. While she never gave him her heart, they had a happy marriage full of laughter and friendship. Margaret had mourned his early death from consumption as deeply as his father. Their shared sorrow had made Henri more accepting of Margaret as a senior engineer—but not accepting enough to leave her his firm.
As her late husband’s words rattled in her head, Margaret took a moment to study the tall, narrow building before her. A series of unadorned columns stood sentry on either side of its greenish copper doors. A plain grey lintel carved with a single medallion topped each window and skylights studded the metal roof. Stuck between two crumbling old stucco houses built in the last century, it resembled a long, thin face, pinched in disapproval of the neighbor’s bow windows and blackened timbers.
“I don’t know how long my appointment will go, Maisey,” Margaret said once they’d entered the building and climbed the main staircase with care as the polished granite was slippery beneath the smooth soles of their boots. “You are welcome to read while you wait, and do not let anyone say otherwise.”
“Yes, madame,” said Maisey, huffing as they reached the second floor.
A shiny brass plaque announced their destination and a personable young clerk greeted them in a bright antechamber. He made certain of Maisey’s comfort before tapping at a gleaming oak door. Taking a deep breath, Margaret tried to shove the events of the past two days out of her mind.
Having Grantham land at her feet only hours after arriving in England had unsettled her equanimity. That he’d done it arse up and covered in rose thorns had made her want to greet him with a jest and she’d resented the impulse. She hadn’t come home to forgive or forget.
She’s come home with a Plan, and Grantham was not part of it.
The Plan was her destiny and hers alone.
“Why, I’ve never looked a woman in the eye. I suppose it’s going to take some getting used to.”
It took every ounce of willpower in Margaret’s body not to react to Sir Royce Geflitt’s bemused surprise as he opened the door to his office and ushered her inside.
“If that is your only complaint about doing business with me, I shall take it as a compliment,” she told him, injecting a note of cheery dismissal into her voice as if it didn’t matter that her size was the first topic of conversation.
Taller than most men, Margaret had hoped to become inured to the jokes about the weather where she stood or the veiled innuendos from men happy to be eye level with her bosom. This hadn’t happened yet, but she’d learned to accept one more irritant in a long line of them that came from working with the opposite sex.
Without waiting for Geflitt to offer her a seat, Margaret took her place in the chair opposite his desk and forced her lips to smile around clenched teeth.
One of Sir Edwin Landseer’s paintings hung on the far wall. The horses’ melancholy gazes were partly obscured by the pale lemon sunlight of an October afternoon falling through the window. Beneath the painting, a credenza filled with a few shiny leatherbound books sported a small collection of horse figurines, a stack of Gentlemen’s Monthly magazines, and numerous volumes of shipping ledgers, periodicals, and atlases. Oak wainscoting wrapped around the room, broken only by the green marble mantelpiece framing a grate full of smoking ash.
Geflitt’s offices sat in the middle ground between well-worn grandeur and the actual trappings of work—much like the man. His baronetcy stretched back at least three generations, but nevertheless he engaged in business. The air of a gentleman somewhat bemused by finding himself in these circumstances wafted about him as he took his seat. His clothing was a conservative mix of fawn-colored trousers and a dark blue frock coat accented by a salmon pink cravat and a plain brown waistcoat. He was clean-shaven and she could smell a hint of sandalwood in the air.
Geflitt lifted one eyebrow in good-natured acknowledgment of her tone once he’d settled himself opposite her. The grey hair at his temples caught in the sunlight and his expression was confident as he steepled his hands.
“These are singular circumstances, my entertaining your bid for this project,” he said. “I’d never heard of a woman owning her own engineering firm, but I have assurances from the Henderson Brothers, the Ainsley Consortium, and even the Lords Crespley and Grimshaw that you are the preeminent railway bridge engineer to be found in the British Isles now you’ve returned.”
Both Henderson Brothers and the Ainsley Consortium had employed Margaret through her father-in-law’s firm to design and consult on their railway bridge projects last year. While neither project had been completed yet, both were ahead of schedule, under budget, and already drawing praise for their innovations.
“I am flattered by their kind words,” Margaret said, pretending humility as displaying too much confidence was dangerous. “I would not say I was the preeminent engineer for there are so many brilliant Englishmen in this field. What I would say . . .”
Margaret leaned forward as if to share a confidence, happy to see Geflitt mirror her position.
“What I would say is there are few engineers who are also experienced in running a business, whether they are male or female. If you hire me for this project, I can assure you I will never underestimate the timeline of the work nor saddle you with superfluous expenses.”
She dropped her eyes to her hands clasped demurely on her lap. “My late husband, Marcel, taught me everything he knew about planning and thrift. Although I will miss working with my father-in-law, I cannot live away from England any longer.”
Geflitt nodded, pushing his lower lip out to signal the weight of his pronouncement. “There is no place in the world that compares to England. It must have been a trial for you to be living amongst the French for so long.”
Yes, such a trial to see beautiful clothes in every shop, eat delicious food, and drink gorgeous wines with her meals.
Margaret brought the conversation back to where she needed it to go.
“If you hire me as your engineer, I will bring the secrets that made my father-in-law’s firm, Henri Gault and Son, the largest and most prestigious in all of Europe. However, since my own firm is an unknown quantity, I will bill you only half the amount I would have commanded had I still worked for Henri.”
A light went on behind Geflitt’s eyes.
“Already you are beginning your bridge construction at a profit,” she added.
“Ahhh.” Geflitt held up a hand. “You have a reputation as a railway bridge engineer but so do Elmsworth and Hitchens.”
Margaret’s heartbeat sped up. Elmsworth was a mediocre engineer and Hitchens benefitted from the work his father had done to build their reputation. She, on the other hand, had sacrificed the dreams of her father by choosing engineering over theoretical physics and the love of her mother for choosing to become a scientist in the first place. For every single commission, she’d put in twice the hours and one hundred times the effort as anyone else in her father-in-law’s firm.
More than anything, Margaret wanted to stand and announce her achievements and trumpet her ambitions.
That would be a mistake.
Instead, she nodded agreeably. “Both of them are fine engineers.”
“You, however, have a reputation for . . . shall we say, original ideas?”
Geflitt’s mouth twitched as though a smile sat behind his lips and wanted out. The slightest tingle of foreboding touched the base of Margaret’s spine when he rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
“I have something to show you.”
Gesturing to a table behind them covered in rolls of parchment, Geflitt rose and, with the air of a street performer, unrolled the largest one, setting an inkpot on either side to keep it flat.
“What is . . .” Margaret joined him at the table but could not comprehend at first. “What is this?” she asked.
Even before she uttered the last words, she understood. These weren’t preliminary plans for a bridge. This was a plan for . . .
“A tunnel?”
Geflitt chuckled with genuine glee. “Yes. I want you to design and build an underwater railway tunnel.”
Only one underwater tunnel existed in the world. The sheer brilliance—and remarkable perseverance—of Marc Brunel had made the Thames Tunnel possible. Its construction had been, in a word, disastrous.
“The Thames Tunnel took twenty years to build, killed six men, and cost half a million pounds. It may be an engineering marvel, but it doesn’t even achieve its original purpose.” The survey maps clearly showed the site of the original Thames Tunnel and a proposed site only a few miles away. “Why on earth would you repeat such a debacle?” Margaret asked.
Geflitt’s eyes sparkled as he traced the diagram with a gloved forefinger.
“You are correct. Right now, Brunel’s Thames Tunnel is little more than a sightseeing attraction—an underground collection of trinket and pasty sellers.” He scrutinized her as if measuring her backbone. “Railways will remake the economy of not just this country, but all of Europe. I’m part of a consortium of men who will start a private line of our own.”
Margaret recognized the banked excitement in his voice as ambition. Not something the British upper classes were supposed to possess.
“I’ve had surveys done. The conditions at the riverbank here and here make a bridge expensive and unwieldy. A tunnel, however, would allow us to bypass the costs of a bridge plus allow us to outshine the rival railways. Ask yourself. Why travel over ordinary bridges when you can take a subaqueous journey? Traveling at breakneck speed right beneath the most storied river in England, now that would be worth the cost of investing in such a venture.”
Margaret shook her head, ready to take her leave even as a low hum started in her head. The diagrams on the parchment turned from dotted lines to lengths of cast iron and barrows full of dirt. Sounds of water rushing overhead drowned out Geflitt’s voice and the smell of brick and mortar filled her nose.
While the rest of the students in physics class at the Yorkshire Academy for the Education of Exceptional Young Women had seen abstract formulas on their slate boards, Margaret alone had heard the grate of stone on stone, felt the weight of a hammer, and tasted sawdust on the back of her tongue.
Science asked questions but for Margaret that wasn’t enough. She needed to find the answers to them—she needed to make those equations real. Theories were important only because they guided her toward creating actual change in her environment.
Beneath the parchment were four more sheets of paper. Margaret rummaged through, catching sight of measurements of the soil height and rock layers at the tunnel site, weather reports, iron prices, all the information necessary to build a tunnel.
A tunnel.
Margaret pushed the papers away and set her hands on her hips.
“No. No matter how well I plan, I have only myself and perhaps an assistant. It would be a thankless job taking years of my life and is bound to end poorly.”
Geflitt cocked his head as if disappointed, but a half smile remained on his face. “Are you certain, Madame Gault? I came to you out of all the other engineers in the country thinking this might be the first true challenge anyone here has set for you.”
Oh, he was wily was Sir Royce Geflitt. The other jobs had been simple, far below her capabilities. A tunnel beneath the Thames was something else altogether. Already Margaret’s head filled with plans to improve upon the Brunel’s designs.
“The logistics . . . ,” she argued half-heartedly.
“I suspected you might be hesitant, Madame Gault,” Geflitt said swiftly. “I can assure you with my next words your worries will be forgotten.”
Hardly. She couldn’t imagine what might convince her to put her name to such a project.
Until he named a sum.
A staggering sum.
A sum too good to be true based on her preliminary investigations of Geflitt’s consortium and financial backers.
“I will be blunt. Your consortium members’ finances are public knowledge,” Margaret said. “I don’t see—”
Geflitt interjected. “My known consortium members. I have acquired a silent partner since publishing our last written notice of incorporation.”
Temptation had her round the ankles and was pulling her in, but Margaret had to remain untouched. So much depended on her making the right decision. “Be that as it may, I cannot agree to this project without knowing the identity of this partner so I can assure myself of their financial stability.”
“He is the publisher of a monthly men’s magazine and leads a social reform group called the Guardians of Domesticity.” Geflitt gestured toward the credenza at a stack of magazines. “Have you ever heard of Victor Armitage?”
* * *
GRANTHAM STARED AT a scarlet bed canopy, reflecting on the life of a belted earl in the year of our Lord Eighteen Forty-Four. Surrounded by privilege and exempt from the hardships plaguing the populace crammed into this capital, you might think he lived a life of contentment and ease.
Instead, Grantham’s backside ached from a two-story fall, his stomach was unsettled with the residual humiliation of having made that fall in front of a beautiful woman, and he’d slept poorly. He’d been plagued by dreams of an . . . amorous nature, featuring a scantily clad and beguilingly furious Margaret Gault.
Grantham yawned and stretched, wincing at the sudden pain in his back. Was this a portent of aging? He’d only passed his thirty-second birthday. Would forty see him limping with a cane and losing his teeth?
He got up and covered himself with a banyan while his valet, Jameson, left a steaming mug of tea and a pile of broadsheets on the small table where he sat to break his fast in the mornings. At the top of the pile lay Gentlemen’s Monthly, the magazine owned by Victor Armitage.
